


paroxysms of safety

by evocates



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017), Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Developing Relationship, Discrimination, Dom/sub Undertones, Gender Roles, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sexual Equality, Without BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-01 05:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: There are certain ways things should be; certain stories that repeat because everyone knows that they are true.Clark goes off-script, and finds in the newness an equality he never thought possible.Complete.





	1. to protect

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I subscribe to a very specific A/B/O worldbuilding that is created by [chuchisushi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi). I wrote 140k words in another fandom – _Romance of the Three Kingdoms_ , dishonour on my cow – for it, so I’m very attached. 
> 
> The most salient parts are: a) every single person in the universe in intersex, i.e. they have both sets of organs, and which ones get ‘switched on’ is dependent on the hormones and genetics that determines the Alpha/Beta/Omega caste; and b) heats do not occur through a schedule, but are more _triggered_ when an omega finds a compatible Alpha who makes them feel _safe_. (Which means, yes, in this universe, there are no periods. A woman can dream.)
> 
> 2) This is “D/s undertones without BDSM” because I tend to think of the two very separately and distinctively. BDSM involves rules and rituals; D/s is a dynamic. Generally, BDSM’s rituals ensure that the D/s doesn’t get abusive, but I’m doing without BDSM here.
> 
> So, basically, there are no conversations about safewords, no coded sets of behaviours, but someone is still going to be on their knees and the whole relationship is still about the push-pull of power play. (The reason for this is that I cannot – I genuinely am _incapable of_ – conceiving Bruce Wayne without D/s being involved in some way. That’s just how I see him.)
> 
> Also, just a note: the new Justice League headquarters is some random building in Metropolis, and not in the ruins of Wayne Manor as implied by the movie.
> 
> This fic is inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyzKlMEaIkc), otherwise known as someone labelled Affleck!Batman as omega and my brain ran screaming with the idea. I had that version of _Crazy in Love_ on repeat while I wrote the first three scenes in longhand. (I was supposed to be working. I keep saying that regarding my recent SuperBat fics.)
> 
>  **Warning:** Atypical Alpha/Beta/Omega universe, D/s undertones without BDSM, possessiveness/ownership kink, somewhat haphazard references to comics canon adapted to movieverse, and detailed depiction of marginalisation. 
> 
> This is less pure porn than an exploration about the difficulties of a completely _equal_ relationship between two people who have very, very different status and expectations imposed on them by society, and also how complicated people can be. With A/B/O and D/s as the vehicles. My porn is almost always political. I can’t even be sorry.

In his younger days, Bruce Wayne would have made a joke out of it. _It’s the height_ , he would say, winking rakishly. Or, _it’s the shoulders, you see_. Then he would run a hand down the breast of his tailored suit, and maybe a manicured fingernail would flick at the corner of the lapel. _I’m rich_ , he would whisper, as if divulging a great secret, grinning emptily. _It’s a difficult thing, finding an Alpha who can provide for me_. 

In the past five years, his attitude had changed. The latest interview showed those fingers – gloved now, though it was barely autumn – that had caressed his own body to tease his temple, right at the roots of the greying strands. _This would look distinguished on an Alpha,_ he had drawled, slyness coiling at the corners of his lips. _Don’t you think_?

If he was being honest with himself – and he usually was – Clark didn’t know what to think. Not about any of it.

Look, he grew up in the Midwest just like any other human kid. (His powers and the thing with the school bus weren’t relevant right now.) He had heard all the talk about how omegas had to be protected and provided for; looked up on the Internet about history, about omegas in the past forced into arranged marriages who ended up drugged up to their gills to induce heats because their Alpha spouses couldn’t give them any feelings of safety. A lot of them died, he remembered. 

Before he… before he was taken out of commission, he even had a direct hand in rescuing a lot of omegas who were being trafficked. The looks they gave him after they were freed had given him the creeps. Not because of anything that they did, but how he had responded instinctively: the rush of power, that voice inside him that told him that he could just _take_ , and they would even be _grateful_ to him for it.

(It wasn’t very different from the way a lot of people looked at him after he came back from that enforced hiatus. But at the same time, it was completely different. He was a writer, and he still wasn’t sure how to explain it.)

That wasn’t the problem; not the whole of it. He could pin down his reactions to conditioning. Some kind of ingrained instinct cultivated by prolonged exposure to the attitudes of those around him. His body might be alien and invulnerable, but his mind was still human and susceptible. That wasn’t the problem. It was…

Jor-El had downloaded the whole of Krpyton’s history into the ship. It took a while, but he finally found the section dealing with this, and… well. Apparently, birthing matrices were invented centuries before Krypton’s destruction – nearly a full millennium, in fact – and the last omega died hardly a hundred years after that. The last beta followed only twenty or so years afterwards. Krypton, the notes stated, was very proud of itself for creating a casteless society. By… well, _genocide_ wasn’t exactly the right word, but _genetic engineering_ was far too gentle-sounding to fit.

So, yeah, Clark had a problem. He had a big enough problem that he was talking around it instead of about it, even to himself.

“I’d say that you’re getting obsessed about this, but it’s more that you’re _already_ obsessed about this.”

Clark opened his mouth to protest. Then he counted the number of tabs he had opened that had something to do with Bruce Wayne, and closed his mouth again. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

The chair scraped over the polished tiles as Lois dragged it over and dropped down to sit. She kicked off her heels. Lettuce crunched as she bit down on her burrito. Her eyes were narrowed and fixed on Clark; the same kind of look as when she thought she had a hook to a good story.

“Doesn’t the fact that you barely notice even now tell you something about what you think?” she asked.

“Not really,” Clark said. He looked at the bullpen – no one was looking at him – before he sighed and closed the tabs one by one. The laptop’s lid made a small _click_ when he pushed it down. Lois didn’t look away the whole time, practically boring a hole into his head as she ate.

“It’d be easier if I knew what I should be thinking,” Clark said.

This time, it was the tomato that crunched. Lois ducked her head down so the dressing didn’t spray all over Clark’s desk. She said something, but it was so food-muffled that Clark could only blink. “What?”

“I said,” Lois wiped at the corner of her mouth, looking up, “I thought you learned from us about how stupid it is to follow a script.” When he tried to speak, she held up a hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean.” 

Yeah, okay. Yeah, he knew exactly what she meant. Lois had been the first to find him; the first to call him by the name that most people knew him by now. She was beautiful, a beta, and he had saved her. It had been easy, and it had felt right, to fall for her. To give her a ring because if he couldn’t give it to the one person who practically crafted his public identity singlehandedly, the person who had so much of a hand in shaping Superman, then who could he give it to? 

Then he had… gone out of commission. Okay, then he had _died_ , and when he came back, it had seemed like she had been waiting. There were so many love stories like this that it should have been easy. They could just pick up where they left off. Get married. Craft another love story of the century. Something like that. 

But it wasn’t that simple. Just like it hadn’t been easy to snap Zod’s neck, no matter how much it seemed to be just the next stage direction written on the script. _Nothing else you could have done_ , Lois had said. Mom had said the same thing, practically verbatim. It was inevitable, they had both agreed. But it hadn’t been easy. It hadn’t felt right, either.

So, yeah. He knew what she meant. About doing things because he thought he should, because it seemed so inevitable. Because he had heard stories about this, and he knew what the next step should be.

Honestly, he was pretty damned lucky that they were both adult enough – her more than him – that they could still work and talk together after everything.

Clark rubbed a hand over his face. “I wish I knew what to think,” he said. He was repeating himself, but he couldn’t help it. Was it really _that_ selfish to wish for something – just one thing – to be easy, for at least a little bit? 

“If I were my father, I’d tell you that nothing worth doing is ever easy,” Lois said. Clark blinked again. Had he said that last line out loud? Looking at her wry smile, he supposed he had.

“But I’m not, and I know how much bullshit like that doesn’t help,” Lois continued. She stood up, paper and plastic crumpling in her fist. “So, I’d say that maybe you should stop thinking about what you _should_ be thinking, and maybe…” She shrugged. “See what you really think, and take things from there. Improvise.”

Which wasn’t helpful either, because if he knew how to improvise, he wouldn’t be following scripts so carefully. But he pasted a smile on his face anyway. Habit, instinct; whichever. 

“Thanks, Lois.” 

***

“It bothers you, what I am.”

He wasn’t in Gotham. Not in the Cave. Just in the League’s new headquarters at the outskirts of Metropolis, standing around watching as Batman fix up some of the technology that would help them save the world some day in the near future. Exposed wires were everywhere, and Batman was dressed not in armour but a simple black turtleneck matched with dark slacks. His shoes had rubber soles, Clark told himself, and forced his fingers not to twitch.

“What? That you’re a grown man who dresses like a bat to beat up criminals, and have done so for over two decades?” Meaningless insults were expected. Easy. They skimmed over the surface of things without dipping into the depths.

Batman tilted his head back. The wool of the turtleneck fitted perfectly over the curve of his shoulder, and its dull blackness was in stark contrast with the soft gleam of Batman’s skin under the sunlight pouring in from the windows. His eyes were very dark.

“That I’m an omega,” Batman said. His lips curled. “Take a hayseed out of Kansas, but you can’t take Kansas out of the hayseed.”

“You know, by the time it was destroyed, Krypton didn’t have castes,” Clark said before he could stop himself. “They used to, but then they just bred all of the omegas and betas out until the genes didn’t even exist.”

Batman didn’t shift his gaze. Like this, out of armour, he didn’t look like the Gotham Bat. But Bruce Wayne was almost always in three-piece suits, so the name didn’t fit, either. This man, the one standing in front of and looking at him, was the one who had saved his mother, who had started shouting when he said her name. He smelled of cinnamon and sandalwood and vanilla with a hint of leather – without the floral notes of Bruce Wayne’s cologne, or Batman’s heavy metallic undertones – and Clark had no name for him.

“How?”

“Birthing matrices,” Clark said. “Designer babies.” He lifted his eyes and gave Batman a lopsided shrug. “Their logic was that castes were a remnant of a more primitive society, and Krypton had advanced too far to need such things. So, they chose what they thought to be the most useful caste, and got rid of the rest.”

“What about gender? Did they get rid of that as well?”

Batman’s voice was very flat. Expressionless. His face was blank. _You tell me to rely on what I really think, Lois_ , Clark thought wryly to himself. _But what can I think when I don’t have any hints to lead me?_

“No,” Clark said. He ducked his head down, then his knee was bending before he knew it. He picked up a length of wire just to fiddle with it. “I don’t know why they kept gender.” He took a deep breath. “Look, it’s not because I’m a hayseed, okay? Hell, Kansas is probably better—”

Leather shoes in front of his eyes. The tip of one had a streak of machine oil dirtying the shine. A broad hand with scarred knuckles; white line from the base down of the thumb down to the wrist. Calluses on the fingertips scraping over the top of Clark’s cheek. 

Batman tilted his head up. Nails sank into his chin. His skin was invulnerable but his mind was not and Clark could barely breathe. Air scraped the insides of his throat. “ _Better_ ,” Batman repeated. “You think it’s better?”

 _It’s all relative,_ Clark could say; an expected, insulting response. _Sorry, I don’t know what I’m talking about,_ which could be the truth. Or he could… he could…

He turned his head and opened his mouth. Darted his tongue out to trail along the fragile bones of the wrist. His hands kept loose by his sides. His eyelids fluttered and slid half-closed. He felt more than heard Batman’s hitch of breath in the tremulous twitch of his fingers on Clark’s jaw.

Bruce Wayne’s fingers trailing down his own body. Batman’s jaw, a hint of handsome humanity, beneath the thick metal cowl when they fought. The slice of skin near the neck, beautifully smooth and vulnerable, peeking up from where the armour shielded everything else from sight. This man in soft wool, perfectly tailored like the suits and the armour, yet different in ways Clark had no words to define or explain.  
_  
_ There was no script to follow. If there had been, they were already breaking from it: Clark would’ve chosen a better location, for one thing. Maybe the lake house. Or the Cave. Something with symbolic meaning and grand enough to be captured on screen. Not here. Not a half-finished building.

They were already improvising. 

His breath shuddered out of him as Batman’s nail scraped over the edge of his cheek. He let his head drop back even further, exposing his throat, and parted his lips. Batman’s eyes had darkened even further, pupils dilating to devour the hazel irises. Clark could almost smell him, right at the edge of his senses. Not just the usual scents that were always teasing, but something sharper. Heavy. Salt on the tongue.

 _Protect_. The image of omegas on magazine covers and screens: narrow shoulders and tiny waists; hands with backs as smooth as silk, delicate ankles and small feet that could barely hold their weight. They’re petite, practically tiny. The right size to wrap around, to engulf entirely.

Batman standing over him, two years ago, his heavy booted foot on Clark’s chest. Bruce Wayne’s deep, rumbling voice: _It’s the height. It’s the shoulders_. Soft wool clinging onto biceps thick and heavy. Eyes looking at him now, dark with desire but hard as flint, as obsidian. Shining not with gratitude or deprivation or submission, but with calculation. 

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark breathed. A name; a discovery. But there was no inevitability. Only the rough rasp of nail down the stubbled column of his throat, circling to the back where the skin felt hot and flushed.

“You mean this,” Bruce said. Without the Bat’s modulator, but rough-edged all the same. Deep, almost a growl.

“Yeah,” Clark murmured. _I want you,_ he thought. _I want to take you and claim you and have you. I want to leave my marks on your skin alongside your scars. I want to run my hands over every inch of your body and trace the line of each healed fracture and break that only I can see. I want to fuck you until that rough voice of yours grows hoarse with screaming my name. I want my name imprinted on your tongue. I want all that._

He let the thoughts seep through his eyes, let them shine bright with them. Felt the tremor in Bruce’s fingers again. Salt nudged at his nose, thicker already, and Clark almost groaned as he imagined the gathering slick. Bruce’s thighs would be wet with it, soaking into his expensive underwear. Sliding down to his ankles, skimming over the skin that shielded the metal holding bones together from sight.

“Ah,” Bruce said. His tone was still flat and his face still blank. This was the part where he should walk away, but he wasn’t moving. He stayed there, touching Clark. 

They were off-script; they had been since Clark went on his knees.

Bruce’s fingers trailed over Clark’s face instead. Gentle, barely a brush: forehead down to the nose’s tip, then thumb light over the lashes and cheeks. Each fingertip lingering on Clark’s lips for long moments before skittering quick over to the jaw, the chin.

The rasp the calluses made over the roughness of his five o’clock shadow sent shocks down Clark’s spine. He sucked in air through his teeth; air he didn’t really need.

Something flashed in Bruce’s eyes. Sunlight over obsidian. “Not now,” he said, and stepped back. His hand fell back to his side, and the sound of electricity sparking echoed in the room.

Clark rocked back on his heels and stood. He didn’t trace the places where Bruce had touched. He knew that it wouldn’t be the same. His own skin didn’t carry the marks of living and battle that Bruce’s did.

 _Call me_ , he thought about saying. He could make it a command. Bruce might find it impossible to disobey, especially now that he was on the cusp of a triggered heat already. (Salt on the tongue.) But that wouldn’t fit. Improvisation still depended on the bare bones of the script. Were they still improvising? He didn’t know what to think.

He turned. Tilted his head back to look over shoulder like Bruce had done just minutes ago. “I’ll wait,” he said. “Take as long as you need.”

Bruce’s breath hitched again. His fingers stilled on the guts of the machine he was building. Clark smiled.

If there was going to be a script, it had to be one of their own making. One that they would write as they went along. One that didn’t need to follow anything else that had come before.

***

It still wasn’t easy. But, this time, Clark didn’t expect it to be.

Months passed. The headquarters were finished. The League went on missions, and Superman and Batman continued to work together. Superman stayed out of Gotham. Clark kept on saving people and thinking about being out of commission for a bit instead of having actually died. Easier to dodge comparisons with Jesus that way.

Then there was this guy with a glowing green ring. His name was, apparently, Hal Jordan.

(“It wasn’t difficult to figure out,” Batman said when he gave the League the man’s actual name. “He mentioned that he was a pilot, talked about a woman named Carol, and his mask is as effective as a facial tattoo in hiding his identity. And just as tacky.”

Okay, Clark could agree on the last bit, if nothing else. But not everyone had access to the employee database of literally every single company in the world in his own personal computer. In fact, Clark was pretty sure Batman’s resources were pretty illegal.

Not that he was going to mention that. He knew just how thin the glass of the house surrounding him was.)

So, given Hal Jordan, they ended up fighting against two species of aliens who decided to make Earth their temporary battleground. One side was named the Kherubim, a warrior race; the other side was the Daemonites, who could shapeshift and turn invisible. Jordan – _Green Lantern_ —was there because Earth was “under his jurisdiction” and the aliens had broken some law or another; laws set by other aliens who had given Jordan that glowing green ring. 

There were, apparently, a lot of aliens. Enough that they would probably be insulted that he was lumping all of them as “alien” in his own head. 

(“Sometimes I think my life comes straight from science fiction,” he told Batman during a lull in a battle.

Bruce gave him a sideways look so loaded with meaning that it was all Clark could do to not burst out laughing. He used the momentum to punch a Daemonite in its invisible nose instead.

“I suppose you’re the type to prefer fantasy instead,” Bruce murmured in reply, too soft for anyone else to hear.

“Nah,” Clark replied later – much later, when they were trying to wrangle Kherubims. “Literary fiction. Human interest stories. That’s my kind of shit.” He grinned. “I supposed your favourite genre is textbooks.”

“Mystery,” Bruce continued abruptly something like an hour later, earning him a raised eyebrow from Arthur where he had been standing between them. “I like testing myself.”

“That’s surprising,” Clark drawled back, and laughed. Arthur’s muttered comment of “crazy land-dwellers and their inexplicable conversations” only made him cackle louder.)

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The battles were all over, and the aliens chased away with the very strong idea that Earth wasn’t a place they could trample on at their whim. Jordan was now staring at Batman with his mouth open and eyes wide, his skin coloured a weird shade of green emitting from the holographic list of the League’s vital signs – and species, and _caste_ – that hovered in front of them. 

“You’re…” Jordan’s voice faltered. He shook his head, hard, and looked at the rest of them. “Which one of you let an _omega_ do shit like this?”

The silence that followed was nearly thick enough to choke. Everyone had known, of course; hard not to when they knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne’s status as an omega was both tabloid staple and listed on his Wikipedia page. But everyone knew better than to bring it up, or even think about it, really.

Figured that it would take someone from both Earth _and_ deep space to say something stupid.

“Batman is our strategist,” Diana said, her voice even and markedly steady. Almost cold, really. “And the person who put this team together in the first place.”

Jordan opened his mouth. Closed it. “Come on,” he said, running a hand through his hair like _they_ were being the unreasonable ones. “Y’all know that omegas should be protected. Kept safe. That’s what Alphas were made _for_.”

No one was looking at Jordan, Clark realised. Their eyes were fixed on Batman, who didn’t seem to be paying any attention to anything other than the screen full of scrolling numbers in front of him.

This, Clark realised, was part of a script he knew well. Convenient bigot made stereotypical assumptions, heralding a time for the supposedly more enlightened one to come to the rescue and speak words of defence. Teach a lesson. Earn themselves some points in favour.

Barry shifted his weight from foot to foot, the motion loud in Clark’s ears. They all knew that script, Clark supposed. And they knew, too, that Batman knew it even better, enough to practically write it himself. Any defence they could make on his behalf could very well be taken as an insult instead. Would most likely be seen as one instead of an attempt to help..

“Do you want me to?” Clark raised his voice.

He could almost hear the air moving as Batman shifted his attention away from the screen to him. Clark spread out his hands and shrugged: it was an offer, and nothing else.

Because he might know Batman’s pride, but he also knew how tiring it was to have to prove yourself over and over, to try to buck a label that had been placed on you. _Alien_ might carry very different connotations from _omega_ , sure, but the exhaustion was the same. Maybe.

Batman tilted his head back. Looked at Clark over his shoulder. “Sure,” he said, and the hazel of his eyes were bright with a mirth that nearly made Clark choke on his tongue. “Go ahead.”

Helplessly, Clark grinned. A script of their own making, he repeated to himself. They were doing pretty okay so far, weren’t they?

(Off to the side, he could tell that Diana was smiling. She was the one who knew both of them best, perhaps better than they knew each other or themselves. Perhaps she already realised; Clark couldn’t be sure. But he knew that she wouldn’t interfere. Not without good reason.

Themyscira was a land populated by women, all of them Alphas. Steve Trevor was a man, and a beta, and she had arrived at the world at a time when the world preferred to sweep the existence of female Alphas under the rug. She knew enough about struggling through her own assumptions and the world’s presumptions to understand at least a little bit.

Though Clark suspected she had a slightly easier time with it than him. Batman had a tendency to make everything complicated.)

“Come on,” Clark said. He took Jordan by the arm before the man could protest, and took up into the air. He went at a speed slow enough to give Jordan some time to construct one of his green air bubbles around himself – they fought in the atmosphere a few times against the aliens, so he knew Jordan could do that – before he stopped at the stratosphere. He floated beside Jordan for a couple of seconds, and then made knocking motions with his hand until the other man got the hint and expanded the bubble to include him.

“Is it a military thing?” Clark asked.

Jordan was staring at his own feet. Or, well, at Earth, hovering right beneath him. “Huh?”

“You don’t have the bearing,” Clark said, cocking his head to the side. “But you said you were a pilot, and the military is a good reason for you thinking the way you do.”

“That’s a hell of an assumption to make, isn’t it?” Jordan drawled.

Clark couldn’t have asked for a better opening if he had written the lines himself. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow.

To his credit, Jordan picked up his meaning immediately. “Look,” he snapped out. “That’s a different thing.” 

“Oh?”

“Being part of the military doesn’t affect your body in the way that being an omega does,” Jordan said.

“I’d think the difference is something else,” Clark said slowly. “You can choose being part of the military, but your caste is something outside of your control.” 

Jordan rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look. I’ve seen what happened when omegas end up getting caught in the crossfire of the shit that I have to deal with, and it’s never…” he faltered for a moment, then rubbed his mouth with his knuckles. “It’s not pretty.”

Someone important to him, Clark didn’t have to ask to know. Probably that ‘Carol’ he had mentioned. Clark sighed; shaking his head. “Personal experience notwithstanding, my point about assumptions still stands,” he pointed out. When Jordan made to protest – the twitch of his eyebrow was always obvious, especially when he was still bathed in the green glow of his ring’s bubble – Clark held up a hand; the usual gesture he made to stop people from mobbing him.

“More importantly, it’s none of your business what he does, or who the League has on the roster.” _Not one of us,_ he didn’t say. It wasn’t Jordan’s fault; he clearly had other responsibilities. “If we’re going to work together in the future, I hope that you will remain professional in your behaviour with _all_ of us.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Jordan barked a laugh, sharp and harsh. “Christ, you sound like a fucking pencil pusher,” he said. He held up both hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “Alright. Alright, I get the message.” He jerked his head to the side. “I have to go now anyway. Got to get back to Oa to report on what happened here. See what the old men want to do with the Kherubim and Daemonites now.”

“You’re not going back to visit?” Clark asked. He didn’t mean the League.

“Nah,” he shrugged, clearly having picked up Clark’s meaning. “I know how it looks like when an omega gets caught up in the shit I’ve got to do. Better to just…” He flapped a hand in the air. “She thinks that I’m dead, anyway.”

Clark thought about Lois. He thought about his mother. Neither of them were omegas, but they were _civilians_ , normal people without powers, and they had already been used against him. He wondered what it would be like if he had decided to continue to pretend to be dead, just to keep them safe. What it would be like for _them_ , to be kept mourning for him while he walked in the world alive.

Not that it was an option for him. Not with the way he had come back, the reason why Batman and the League had brought him back. But he had thought about it before, and it wasn’t exactly a pleasant thought.

Clark remembered about those army recruiters who came to his high school, the way they practically stalked all of the kids who had already presented as Alphas, telling them in loud voices about how being a soldier meant being able to protect and provide for the omega of their dreams. How their definition of protecting and providing was simply not being there for months on end.

It made him wonder if it was worth it for Jordan, the choices he made. To believe so deeply that it was his purpose to ensure the safety of those he loved that he would cut himself off from that love entirely, dooming himself to a lifetime of loneliness. 

None of his business. Still, he had to stifle a shudder. “I’d say that I hope we see each other again, but…”

“Seeing me means there’s some kind of interstellar trouble involving Earth,” Jordan finished for him. He crooked a lopsided grin that crinkled the side of his frankly ridiculous domino mask. “Got it. No worries, Superman.” 

He zipped off, a tiny green bubble bobbing in the vast emptiness of space. Clark watched him go before he went back to the League headquarters, darting in through the window that was always kept open for him.

“Good, you’re back,” Batman said once Clark’s feet touched the ground. He had pushed back the cowl, his hazel eyes sharp as he glanced at Clark. “We need to debrief.”

Clark looked at him. For a moment, he wanted to tell Batman – tell _Bruce_ – exactly what he had told Jordan. Not bragging about it, just… Okay, telling him _would_ be showing off. Would be an attempt to gain brownie points for decency. Falling back to the same cliché script, except that Bruce would be pissed and deviate to the _other_ script, the one where he took back the few inches that Clark had gained. 

“Alright,” Clark said, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. “Let’s start, then.”

They were writing a story of their own making. But, right now, Clark really had no idea what the next scene was. He supposed that was what made it exciting.

(Later, after the debriefing, Bruce asked him if there was anything in Clark’s ship that mentioned the Guardians of Oa. Clark promised to look, and to give him whatever he could find. He didn’t ask Bruce why he asked: the fact that Jordan could scan all of them and peel information out from their bodies disturbed him, too.

He didn’t find much. Just some vague references to a certain Green Lantern Corp that tried to interfere with Krypton’s colonisation efforts, and a few more descriptions of the ring that Jordan was wearing. Clark translated it all to English and gave it to Bruce anyway.

Then Bruce thanked him. Brusque, barely audible, but definitely there. Clark stared at him, poleaxed, until Bruce turned away.

Until now, he didn’t quite understand. Of all the things that Bruce would choose to thank him for, why _this_?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kherubims and Daemonites are stolen from pre-DC Wildstorm. 
> 
> I apologise deeply to Hal Jordan’s fans. He’s just the only one who has a DC movie but isn’t in the DCEU proper, so I co-opted him for my purposes. He’s more pre-52 comics characterisation than the movie. I hope I did him _some_ justice, at least.


	2. to trust

Narratives revolved around conflict. It was Tolstoy who had put it best: _happy families are all alike, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way_. No one wanted to read about things going right in the way other people lived; they relished in watching and seeing things break apart just so they could gain satisfaction, whether from the schadenfreude of knowing their own lives were better or from seeing things getting fixed. That was the first lesson in journalism that Lois had ever taught him; one that Clark didn’t actually need to learn because he had had it shoved into his face by Zod and everything that happened with him afterwards.

Anyway, long story short: Clark fucked up. It was only a matter of time.

They were in the ballroom of the Metropolis Hilton; the General Hospital was holding a fundraising gala to get money for new equipment for its oncology department. Clark was there to cover the event – a puff piece, something Perry gave him so he could have his by-line on the page while he concentrated on something else – and Bruce Wayne was there, Clark supposed, to reassure people that Metropolis and Gotham _were_ still working together even with the rebuilding efforts on both cities almost finished.

Not that he was paying that much attention to Bruce. His eyes were fixed on following a certain Bruno Mannheim around. Son of Moxie, a gangster with a certain reputation in Metropolis ( _yes, Bruce, there is organised crime in Metropolis too,_ he could imagine saying), Mannheim had been penetrating Metropolis’s high society lately, making appearance at places and events where someone with his background usually wouldn’t be allowed within a ten-mile radius of. 

Rumours had been brewing around Mannheim. Something about a certain ‘Intergang.’ Superman wasn’t exactly the kind of person who sank his hands into the guts of organised crime – kind of difficult to do that with the uniform – so Clark Kent was the one doing it. 

Mannheim was in his late thirties. Tall and broad-shouldered, he would be handsome if not for the perpetually-mean expression on his face and the thick moustache decorating his upper lip. Oh, and the way he walked: strutting around with his chest puffed up and chin jutting. Kind of like a rooster, especially with his thick hair slicked back. If not for what Clark had been hearing about him, he would find it difficult to take the man seriously.

Then he started in on Bruce.

Logically, Clark could say that it wasn’t unexpected. Bruce was one of the richest – if not _the_ richest – people present, blue-blooded, an omega, and still unattached. People were drawn to him for that precise reason: forty-five and still unmarried was less a deterrent than an invitation, Alphas thinking that _they_ would be the one to change Bruce’s mind. 

It didn’t make him calm down. His blood was roaring in his ears, louder than the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of Bruce’s heart, as Mannheim started to _corner_ Bruce. Using his own frame and some undoubtedly inane conversation to edge Bruce towards a nearby wall, practically bracketing him with his own large frame. And Bruce wasn’t helping matters, because he was hunching his shoulders, ducking his head and looking at Mannheim from beneath his lashes. There was a champagne flute held between his long, gloved fingers, a teasing smile on his lip.  
_  
Fuck_. Clark had seen the same pose on the covers of some pretty disreputable magazines, and he had always thought that it looked ridiculous. But Bruce made it look seductive instead, natural. Like he was actually a submissive omega looking for just the right Alpha to pluck him off his pretty pedestal instead of the motherfucking Bat of Gotham.

Clark was getting too angry. He took a deep breath. In the interim, his feet decided to take him closer to the two of them.

“Excuse me, Mr Wayne, may I get a statement from you regarding Gotham and Metropolis’s relationship given the recent events?”

Mannheim’s head jerked towards him. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Clark Kent, _Daily Planet_ ,” Clark said. He tugged at the lanyard of the press pass on his neck, and deliberately didn’t meet the man’s eyes. It wasn’t going to be enough to stop the man from remembering his face, but he had to make the effort anyway. “I’m sorry, but you are…?”

“Bruno Mannheim,” the man replied. His lips curled. “I thought reporters are supposed to keep up with the important people in a city.”

“We are,” Clark said. Fuck the anonymity thing. He met Mannheim’s eyes, and deliberately let the unsaid _sir_ hover between them for a moment before he turned back to Bruce. “So, about your statement, Mr Wayne…?”

“Can’t you see that we’re having a conversation?” Mannheim snarled. He was shifting, trying to block Bruce from Clark’s sight.

Then a hand landed on Mannheim’s forearm. The glove was made of silk, with little pearl buttons at the wrist. Bruce, who was now giving a lopsided smile to Mannheim. “The duties of the famous never ends, Bruno,” he said, and Clark barely repressed a growl at the way Bruce’s tongue wrapped around Mannheim’s name. Like a caress. “Give me a few moments with the press, won’t you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he nudged the champagne glass against Mannheim’s hand until he took it. He started walking, and Clark could only follow him out of the ballroom. Into a balcony.

Black silk on the white marble railing. Bruce had large hands, broad palms. The gloves streamlined them, made them seem smaller. Less deadly. Like the suit was cut perfectly to narrow his waist, with dark grey embroidery at the lapels to distract from the broadness of the shoulders. 

“What the hell are you doing, Kent?” Bruce’s voice was quiet. Low. Fury tightly leashed.

“There are rumours about Mannheim,” Clark said. It sounded better than _I don’t like how he’s touching you, I don’t like how you’re letting him to touch you._ “He’s building up a criminal organisation. He—” 

“He’s looking into trafficking arms,” Bruce interrupted him. “Very specialised weapons: nanites that could be transmitted through air, aerosolised desoxyn,” _the closest legal equivalent to meth,_ “magnesium sulphate,” _drying agent,_ “EMPs localised to the size of a human body.” He glanced at Clark over his shoulder, his eyes cold and face expressionless. “Kryptonite.”

Clark went very still. He put the pieces together. Desoxyn to overstimulate Barry’s mind and send it on the fritz. Drying agents for Arthur’s skin. EMPs for Victor. Nanites for Diana? He couldn’t see how those could be used, but the pattern held. Clark breathed out sharply. “Weapons made to take out the League,” he said.

“There’s a man in Gotham he’s working with,” Bruce continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “Roman Sionis. I can’t get to Sionis,” a flash of lightning in his dark eyes, an entire history untold, “so I’m trying to get to Mannheim.” His lips twisted. “Do you think I’m here to admire Metropolis’s scenery?”

 _You fucked up_ , Clark’s brain told him helpfully. _He’s been trying to protect his team, and now you might have ruined everything he been trying to do the entire night._ “I—” Clark licked his lips. “I’m sorry that I behaved like a Neanderthal.”

When Bruce moved, Clark could barely see him. He only felt the touch of silk on his chin, fingers gripping tight onto invulnerable flesh and dragging his head up. Bruce was standing straight now, using the two inches he had on Clark on its full effect. The Gotham Bat’s eyes narrowed, looming over him in Bruce Wayne’s suit. “Don’t insult Neanderthals,” he said, voice dipping down into a growl. 

Clark looked into his eyes, trying to show his apology through them. Didn’t speak.

After another couple of seconds, Bruce let go. He stepped back, leaning against the railing. Suddenly, he looked very tired, Metropolis’s bright billboards and streetlights catching on the grey of his hair, the lines around his eyes and mouth. He turned away.

“If I let you fuck me, will you get over yourself?”

The question was dropped casually, like it was merely idle curiosity. But Clark could feel it sink inside him anyway, wrapping chains around his heart and forcing it to beat harder to try to break through the iron. He hissed out a breath, and shook his head.

“I think that’d make things worse,” he said, voice soft. “Because then I’ll have a taste, and then I’ll want more. I’ll want to do it over and over again. Until you want to be mine as much as I want you to belong to me.”

Here was the thing: Clark didn’t make a habit of lying to himself. And he was a writer, trained to weave words into illusions. So, he knew exactly what it meant when he thought he wanted to protect Bruce. Because _protecting_ was just another word for _owning_. Because protecting Bruce meant that only the threats Clark approved of would be allowed to touch him; would mean that Bruce’s decisions about his own life meant less than Clark’s decisions on his behalf.

He wasn’t very much better than Jordan, really. Or Mannheim. Or anyone who looked at Bruce Wayne and thought _prey_ instead of _person._ He just knew how to pretend a bit better. Control himself a bit more. Pull on a façade of decency.

“Well, at least you’re not fooling yourself about what you’re doing,” Bruce said. He rubbed at the corner of his eyes, hissed out a breath through his teeth. His heart, Clark noted distractedly, was speeding up. “Or making excuses and saying that they are righteous reasons.”

“That,” Clark said, “is a really fucking low bar.”

Bruce barked another laugh at that. Exhaustion etched itself deeper into the corner of his eyes, and he shook his head. “You’d be surprised,” he said. He was speaking so softly that it was nearly subvocal, barely more than a murmur. His heart had slowed down again. Nothing but a momentary slip. Clark shelved the thought away.

“You know, sometimes I feel like stabbing Kryptonite into my own face,” he said. Total non-sequitur, but it made Bruce jerk his head up and blink at him, distracting him from whatever thoughts spiralling in his head. Clark grinned. “Instead of doing that, I go online and surf the websites that talk about Superman. Not the conspiracy ones – I don’t want my brain to melt entirely – but just… the less pleasant ones.”

“The hate sites,” Bruce said, drawing out the words. “You go to read your own _hate sites_.”

“Have to get constructive criticism somewhere,” Clark shrugged. Better that than to saying that reading the vitriol other people spewed at him was easier to listening to that being thrown at him by his own head. Also, he needed them to better deflect the Jesus comparisons.

Anyway, “There are people who are… displeased, you know? That I’m not everywhere? That I’m not rescuing people from every fire, every earthquake, every flood, every tornado and hurricane and cyclone. People saying that it is selfish that I appear so often in Metropolis, because there are obviously other places that need me more.” 

Bruce was still looking at him, head tilted to the side. Clark took a deep breath, and continued, “And yeah, I know why they say all that. I understand. They’ve seen my powers, they know what I can do, they know what I _have_ done. So, they wonder, why not for _them_? What makes one earthquake that I interfered with so much more important to the fire that I didn’t? Surely _they_ are important enough to merit Superman’s attention.” 

He shifted his gaze from Bruce, looking out into the Metropolis skyline. “Self-entitlement is a hell of a thing,” he said, voice soft. “Isn’t it?”

Still silence. Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not saying that I know how it is exactly, and I know I haven’t had to deal with it as much as you had. But it’s like… I know I fucked up, and I’m not going to make excuses for myself. And that’s not…” He faltered. This was the reason why he always preferred going with a script: without one, he would go off the rails, become too honest, too awkward. 

Strange. _Alien_.

“That’s not really something that should earn me brownie points or anything.” He was still fucking talking, someone stop him, “Not that I think that you’re giving me brownie points, but just—” 

Bruce kissed him. Black silk over Clark’s jaw, a thumb grazing the lobe of his ear. Bruce’s rough cheek rasping over his own too-smooth skin. Soft lips against him, tongue flicking over his teeth. Clark made an incoherent sound at the base of his throat. His arm shot out, wrapping around Bruce’s waist and pulled him close. He tilted his head and _shoved_ his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, licking every inch, trying to claim with his tongue even as he pressed them even closer, closer.

He could hear Bruce’s ribs protesting. _Shit_. 

Clark stopped. Backed away. He was breathing hard – he didn’t need to breathe, he needed to remember that he didn’t need to breathe, dammit – and staring at Bruce. Watching as Bruce’s own chest expand and contract rapidly as he panted, lips parted and wet. His heartbeat, usually so slow and steady, was rising up into a thunder in his chest.

Salt. Salt on his tongue.

“I’m sorry, I—” _Could’ve hurt you_. He had been so careful, with Lois. Controlling his strength. Trying to make sure he didn’t leave bruises. Never really relaxing. Never really letting go. She had noticed, of course, and she had always smiled at him, so soft and sweet, and she—

“Idiot.” 

Clark blinked. Bruce was standing in front of him. So close, Clark could see the flecks of blue in his eyes. The streak of saliva on the side of his cheek where Clark’s teeth had scraped over when he had broken the kiss.

“What?”

“This isn’t some test of decency,” Bruce said. His gaze was wry. Exasperated, almost. “It’s not proving that you know all the steps to perform to prove that you’re a good person.” His eyes narrowed, turned sharper. He tilted his head to the side. “That you’re a decent _human_.”

Clark clicked his mouth back shut. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Here he was, thinking that he knew how to deal with Bruce being an omega because he had to deal with being an alien, and therefore there were some similarities… He should’ve known that he was just _projecting_. That he and Bruce had just been writing two utterly different scripts from the beginning.

“I… Sorry,” he said.

“It’s not an apology I want,” Bruce said. When Clark opened his eyes, he was leaning back against the railing again, arms crossed and eyes steady on him. “Do you trust me, Clark?”

 _Of course_ , Clark wanted to say. The Kryptonite in the Cave proved that, didn’t it? He trusted Bruce to take him down if he needed to; trusted him to not misuse the mineral he had that could destroy Clark entirely, the thing that had killed him. If that didn’t prove trust, then…

But that wasn’t the kind of trust that was required, was it?

“You don’t,” Bruce said, because he was probably telepathic. Or Clark was telegraphing all of his thoughts on his face. Bruce shook his head. “How am I supposed to trust you when you don’t trust me?” He tilted his head to the side. “When you don’t trust me with my own limits? When you don’t even trust _yourself_?”

There was a very peculiar sensation in being peeled apart by someone else’s hands; about having the raw parts of himself that he tried so hard to hide exposed to someone else’s gaze. Clark slapped his hand over his own eyes, but it didn’t help. 

What had he been saying, about not liking to lie to himself? Bullshit, Kent. _Bullshit_.

“Think about it,” Bruce said. When Clark peeked at him through his fingers, he was standing next to him, gloved fingers neatening his already-pristine lapels. “I’ll contact you about the information I have about Mannheim and Sionis later.”

He walked back into the ballroom. Clark watched him go, and then sighed. If he was still writing the script, he would consider this a success, because he was letting Bruce dictate the pace of their relationship. Because he was being a decent _human being_ and not forcing the issue about Bruce’s proximity with Mannheim.

But he wasn’t writing the script. Because there was no fucking script from the beginning.

Clark leaned against the wall, and let his head smack hard against it. He had to be careful to not crack the plaster.

That thought made him want to scream.

(Later, Bruce texted him. Not information about Mannheim, just a sentence. Bruce Wayne’s statement about the relationship between Metropolis and Gotham.

Clark, alone in his apartment, surrounded by his half-unpacked bags, laughed until he cried.)

***

It was a lot easier just talking about trusting instead of actually _doing it_. It was not like there was a magical red button named “press here to trust Bruce.” It wasn’t like there was a gauge in his mind that could tell him about the level of trust he had managed to convince himself to have for Bruce.  
_  
_ He was thinking about it. He was thinking about it so much that the word ‘trust’ was starting to gain a hollow edge in his head. And that meant that he was getting in the way of being well and truly _fucked_.

“Mannheim’s true goal is legitimacy,” Bruce said. 

They were in the League headquarters again today, a week and three days after the fundraising gala. (Clark sent in the puff piece a day after. Perry’s red pen was merciful except for that one thin red line over Bruce Wayne’s statement and a scribbled _unnecessary_ next to it. Luckily, the bullpen was filled with enough frustrated writers that Clark slamming his head on his desk only gained him a few lettuce leaves from Lois’s sandwich.)

Clark had rescued people from one earthquake and a couple of dozen more fires, and read more posts from people complaining that he wasn’t doing enough. Talking about Mannheim was a relief; here was at least _one_ problem that had a clear enough cause.

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” Bruce nodded. He tapped a few keys on the board, inserting more lines of code in the algorithm he was building. “It’s not a criminal empire that he’s making but a company. He’s seeking those specialised weapons because he’s on a probationary contract from a government agency.” He tilted his head back, looking over his shoulder at Clark. There was a thin smile on his lips.

“ARGUS. Amanda Waller.”

Clark had heard about her. “Fuck,” he said. It seemed a good enough summary for the situation. “What about Sionis?”

“They’re working at cross-purposes, actually,” Bruce said. “Seeking the same things, but Mannheim wants them to hand over to Waller, while Sionis plans to sell them to the highest bidder.” He leaned a hip against the table, folding his hands together. “The Intergang name floating around in Metropolis is a rumour that Sionis started, trying to discredit Mannheim.”

Bunch of threads running all over the place. What had he been saying, about simple problems with solutions? It was nearly enough for him to start missing Zod. At least there was _one_ problem there he had solved by punching faces. 

(And breaking a neck. He couldn’t forget about the neck-breaking. The sound still haunted his nightmares.

So, no, he didn’t miss Zod. Not at all. He was also not looking out of the window towards Metropolis.)

“So,” Clark said. “What are we going to do about this?”

Bruce looked at him from beneath his lids. His posture would seem almost languid, lazy, if not for the coiled tension in his muscles. Bruce Wayne’s poise with the Bat’s anticipation. Somehow, that fitted perfectly with the dark turtleneck and black slacks he was once more wearing.

“What do you think?” Bruce asked.

Clark narrowed his eyes, pondering for a moment. “You hunt down a few names. Some leads,” he said slowly. “I’ll go shake those people up, get some interviews here and there.” His lips quirked up, lopsided. “Then I’ll write an exposé with a spin on it that Waller and the government were doing this legitimately and above-the-board. Call for accountability, some kind of board whose activities will be very public.” He spread his hands out. 

“Waller and the government’s motivations for doing this is pretty easy to grasp,” he said. “Something about who watches the watchers, too much power that can easily get out of control, that kind of thing. It’s old news.” Zod. Nairomi. Clark’s fucking existence on Earth. “Making them into villains would be a mistake. Just expose them, make sure they have to answer to the public for their actions.”

Slowly, Bruce’s eyebrow rose. “That’s sneaky.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a compliment,” Clark said, grinning helplessly.

“It is,” Bruce said. He turned back to the screen, and Clark took the moment to close his mouth so he wasn’t gaping _that_ obviously. He shook his head.

“That only takes care of Waller and her people,” Clark said slowly. “But what’s the angle on Mannheim and Sionis?”

“Mannheim wants legitimacy because morality is different for the legitimately rich,” Bruce said. There was a wry quirk to his mouth, and Clark knew where it came from. Bruce Wayne’s reputation was that of an incorrigible flirt, someone who couldn’t commit. And, unlike most omegas without his money and name, he didn’t have slurs flung into his face. Just insinuations here and there on society pages of newspapers, in whispers at the corners of ballrooms. 

Easy enough to ignore. Maybe.

“I’ll trample Sionis’s operations and attempts in Gotham,” Bruce said. “Coupled with your exposé, Mannheim would probably change his mind about using this route. Too difficult.” 

Clark nodded. “Okay.”

“No objections?” 

“Huh?” Clark blinked. “Should I have any?”

“I’m the one doing the heavy lifting,” Bruce pointed out. “While you just sit on your ass and write some lines.”

It was an insult. It was _definitely_ an insult. But Clark was laughing anyway, shaking his head. “Writing is more difficult than pulling people out of burning buildings.” That was partly why he liked it so much; his powers couldn’t make his prose _good_. That was all on him. Just him. “Besides, I’m doing some pavement-pounding, too, you know. Got to shake up the leads you’re going to give me.”

“No protests about how Superman should barge in somewhere?” Bruce asked, brow arched now. “Deliver some sort of speech about the wrongs that they were doing?”

“That’s not going to do anything,” Clark said. Then an idea struck him. He cocked his head to the side. “You know, I’ve never had a problem trusting you to do your job.” He paused. “Okay, that thing at the gala was me trying to stop you from doing your job, but not really at the same time? I didn’t know you were doing your job, so…” He trailed off. Stopped.

Bruce was still looking at him, one eyebrow raised. Clark scratched the back of his neck. “You should know this already,” he said. Kryptonite in the basement, after all.

“I know,” Bruce said. “I’m just waiting for you to notice how long it has been since _Superman_ has actually had a conversation with the public.”

 _That’s a hell of a roundabout way to bring up that particular topic_ , Clark almost said. Then he realised that was the point. The entire conversation had been a trap tailor-made for him. Lull him to a false sense of security about knowing where Bruce was going, and then divert the trail entirely at the last moment.

The worst thing was that he couldn’t even get mad at Bruce about this. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I talk to you guys,” he protested. Weak, he knew, but it was all he had. “And I, uh, tell people what to do during the emergencies I involve myself in.”

Bruce pressed his lips into a line. Shook his head. “Public,” he repeated. “Conversation.”

Clark turned away. He found one of the folding chairs where they were laid neatly against the wall, pulled it over, and dropped himself to sit down. Stretched out his legs and stared at the ceiling. “A while,” he finally admitted. “It’s just… Not a good thing for Superman to actually say anything substantial to the public.”

He slid his eyes to Bruce. “Why are you asking me about this?”

The other eyebrow went up, and, yeah, Clark knew exactly why. It went back to the trust thing that Bruce mentioned. Because trust had to go two ways: not just Clark doing something, everything, for Bruce. Not just compromising for his sake. But also… also letting Bruce do something for him. Letting him in enough to show all of the weak, vulnerable bits. Even though he thought that was being selfish.

His eyes flicked down to Bruce’s hands. No gloves, despite winter fast approaching. There were fresh bruises on the knuckles, stark green-blue-purple over pale skin. One of the nails was chipped badly, practically torn off. Clark’s own hands were pristine, as always. Even though he had literally stuck his arms into the guts of a burning building to pull out a couple of kids just yesterday.

Selfish, huh? It was more fucking selfish to hide all of his weaknesses when Bruce was always, always showing him his. But maybe it was easier for Bruce, because his body wasn’t invulnerable like Clark’s was.

Okay, that was totally bullshit. Batman finding it easy to show vulnerability? Like hell. Clark was just looking for excuses.

He took a deep breath. “The first time I said something after I… came back,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it blew up. I was putting out wildfires in California, and I was giving some suggestions about how they could stop it from spreading. Next thing I know…” He rubbed his face. “You know, there are websites out there that compiles everything Superman had ever said? They’re putting it all into a book, and they’re—” 

“Calling it the new Bible,” Bruce finished for him. “I’ve heard.”

“It sounds stupid when I talk about it,” Clark told the ceiling. “My life is so hard because people listen to me so intently. Also, they compare me to Jesus and want to build a religion around me. What a fucking hardship. Cry the pseudo-god a river.”

Bruce snorted. He walked over. His hands closed over the back of the chair, knuckles brushing light over Clark’s plaid-covered shoulders. Upside down, he was still unfairly beautiful. When Bruce scraped his fingertips over Clark’s jaw, brushing light over the hint of stubble, Clark lidded his eyes. Breathed out long and slow.

“Is this why you read the hate sites?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah,” Clark said. Might as well tell him everything, at this point.

“Do they help?”

“Not really,” Clark shrugged. He tried very hard to not lean into Bruce’s touch, but it was difficult. His head tipped slightly to the side, practically lolling against the chair, and his breath hitched when Bruce’s knuckles slid slow and gentle over his cheek. “It’s just… you know Marilyn Manson’s song? _Personal Jesus_? They think of me like that. That’s why they get so mad.”

It was just easier to deal with anger than worship. Easier to tell himself that he was still human when he was reading all the hate.

“Depeche Mode.”

“Huh?”

“The original is by Depeche Mode. Manson’s is a cover,” Bruce said. When Clark blinked up to him, Bruce had the smallest quirk to his lips. “And you’re not much of a god when you can’t even get your references right. Google exists, you know.”

Clark was laughing before he even knew it. Low, but enough to wreak through his body. He caught Bruce’s wrist before he could pull away. Then, holding that hazel gaze with his own, he turned his head and rubbed his cheek over the palm. There was a scratch there, barely noticeable, right beside one of the lines. He scraped his barely-there stubble over it just to hear Bruce’s heart quicken for a couple of beats.

“Fuck, the way you _react_.” Clark heard his own voice as if coming from afar, submerged as he was in the sound of Bruce’s heart. “In ways that only I can sense. It’s a hell of a head trip, you know that?”

“I kind of figured,” Bruce said. His voice would sound normal to human ears, but to Clark, there was a rough rasp to it. As if it took him effort to force every word out of his throat. “And that’s not very like Jesus, either.”

It should make him laugh, the dichotomy. Here he was, making full use of those powers that had the world saying that he was a god, and Bruce was telling him that they were precisely why he wasn’t. But he could only shudder, arching as Bruce’s hand slipped down to brush over the curve of his shoulder.

An image came to his mind: Bruce looking over his shoulder at him. _Go ahead_ , he had murmured, giving Clark permission to deal with Jordan for his sake. The way his fingers had trembled when Clark had shone _I want to own you_ through his eyes. The way his heartbeat picked up when Clark had said it out loud. Coming out with him to the balcony when he interfered with Mannheim, even though Bruce Wayne had plenty of reason to just brush some reporter away.

Pieces fell into place. A hypothesis. Clark licked his lips.

“I’m the only one who knows that you’re reacting like this, aren’t I?” he murmured. Bruce’s mouth was so close that he _felt_ the breath that stuttered out of him. “All of your tiny cues, they’re only for me. Just mine.” He tilted his head and ran his teeth over the inside of Bruce’s wrist. His pulse fluttered like butterfly wings beating furiously.

Oh. _Oh_. Clark reached up. He sank his hand into Bruce’s hair, scraping his nails over the greying strands at the temples. Thumb light over the lines at the sides of the eyes. 

“ _Mine_.”

Bruce pulled away. Then, less than a second later, he was in Clark’s lap, thighs spread over his hips, and his mouth was on his. A hard crash, teeth against teeth, and Bruce _groaned_ at the impact. Barely audible, from the base of his lungs.

Clark took his mouth. Gripped Bruce’s hair tight enough that he could feel the roots straining. Bruce’s hips rocked against his own; he could hear the rush of his blood downwards, his cock thickening. Clark dug a hand between them, fingers curving over Bruce’s ribs, digging in with his nails until he could feel his bones _creak_. __  
  
Salt in his nose, on his tongue. He could smell how wet Bruce was becoming, how hard he was, pressed against Clark’s hip. Clark held his breath, stopped breathing, and pressed his fingers even deeper in. Just a bit more, letting go of his control over his strength—

“ _Clark_.” Low, guttural, _wanting_. His hips rocked forward, rubbing himself against Clark’s thigh, Clark’s cock. He threw his head back.

Immediately, Clark dove in. Dragged the collar of the turtleneck down with his teeth, feeling the wool tear and hearing it rip. Tasted Bruce’s throat, chasing the hint of blood-metal there, right above his racing point. Bruce moaned for him. Salt on his tongue, so heavy. Clark shifted his hands, closing one around Bruce’s hip, and liftedhim. The other wrapped around Bruce’s chest, nails scraping the back of his ribs, right above his roaring heart.

Then Clark tilted his own hips. Slammed them upwards, his own hardening cock rubbing between Bruce’s legs, right where he could feel a wet patch growing. At the same time, he _bit_. Hard enough to feel the blood vessels break beneath the skin. 

And Bruce came, just like that. Fell apart completely, soundlessly, eyes squeezed shut and hands clawing fruitlessly on Clark’s invulnerable shoulders. Clark rocked upwards, over and over, carrying Bruce through his orgasm, shoving pleasure into his nerves past the point of sensitivity until Bruce was whimpering, his head dropped forward and hands clenched tight around Clark’s shirt.

“You,” Clark breathed against his throat. “You beautiful, beautiful _contradiction_.”

Bruce refused to be underestimated. All bristling pride whenever someone was stupid enough to do it. He refused to be protected, throwing himself into battles, and anyone who tried to save him was more in danger from his sharp tongue and sharper wit than whatever he was fighting against. But at the same time…

At the same time, this was what he _wanted_ : Clark’s hands on his hips, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Clark’s mouth on his throat, marking him, claiming his body as his. Clark’s arm around him, engulfing him entirely. Clark’s strength, overwhelming him, making him feel small and vulnerable and _weak_.

There would never be a script like this, Clark thought dizzily. No story, no narrative. Too complicated, too contradictory. Nothing that could be distilled into a pithy summary.

“Clark,” Bruce breathed. His eyes were still closed, and he dragged himself forward until their foreheads touched. “Clark. I’m going into heat. You’re…” He shuddered as Clark ran his hand down his spine. “You’re making me go into heat.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. He turned his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against Bruce’s temple, smearing his spit with the gathered sweat. “Yeah. I can smell it. How long will it take until it hits you fully?”

“I…” Bruce’s hand clenched tighter on his shirt. Those knuckles must hurt, skin stretched so tight over the bruises. “I don’t know. The last time this happened was when I was a teenager.” He swallowed. It was so loud. “And that’s not exactly accurate.”  
_  
Decades_ without a heat. The first time, the only other time, was when he was a teenager. Probably when he first presented as an omega. Clark’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head.

All of his powers, all of his strength. Enough to break a human being. Enough to treat Bruce like he was nothing. Enough to destroy him. And Bruce didn’t _need_ any of it. Didn’t need it to do his job, to fulfil his purpose. He didn’t, and would never, need Clark to use his powers to save him.

But he wanted it. He not only wanted it, but those powers made him feel safe. Safe enough to tip him into heat when he had never… When he…

Before he could control himself, his hand was already in Bruce’s hair, pulling his head back. His teeth on his throat, worsening the bruise he had already made. Spread it out further. Bruce’s neck would be nothing but splotches of blue and purple and green tomorrow morning.

“ _Mine_ ,” Clark snarled. “ _Mine_.”

Bruce shuddered for him. Tremor that started from his spine and spread throughout his body. “When you were on your knees,” he said, voice quiet, more breath than sound, “you almost tipped me into it.”

Clark hissed out breath through his teeth. Scrabbled for control. Bruce was saying something important. “What.” He stopped. More air. “What stopped it?”

“Your head was a mess,” Bruce said. His fingers were gentle along Clark’s hairline, brushing a few strands out of his eyes. “It wouldn’t be fair. Wouldn’t be right to drag you into something like this, then.”

Closing his eyes, Clark leaned into the touch. Pressed a kiss to Bruce’s wrist, again, before he surged forward to capture his lips. 

He didn’t need Bruce to say the exact words; he could already tell. Bruce loved him. Bruce looked at all that mess in his head and not only didn’t begrudge him for his weakness, but gently led him down the road of fixing it. Didn’t save him, but let him find a way to save himself. Waited for him, all this while, even though he knew that Clark wanted him, even though Clark could give him everything he wanted, because Clark should get something from this, too. 

Thing was, Clark had learned something about how humans treated gods: they took and took, and whatever they gave was only part of a barter trade. Because gods weren’t seen to be vulnerable enough to want anything mere humans could give. Because gods were symbols, not flesh and blood, and so didn’t need anything.

Pulling back, he dropped his head forward until his forehead touched Bruce’s. Breathed out against those wet, swollen lips, his hand stroking over the curve of Bruce’s cheek. He didn’t say it out loud, just let it shine through his eyes: _I love you_.

Bruce closed his eyes. Tilted his head and brushed his lips over Clark’s, very gently. Acceptance, acknowledgment. Clark hummed under his breath, and pulled him even closer in. Made his bones strain a little bit as they struggled against invulnerable flesh.

“We should get back to Gotham,” Bruce murmured. “Get out of here, at any rate, before any of the others come by.”

Right. League headquarters. Teammates. Clark blinked his eyes open, and cocked his head to the side. “You’re letting me into the Gotham?” His lips quirked up on one side. “The Cave?”

“Mm,” Bruce said. “Gotham. The Cave. My house.” His thumb brushed the side of Clark’s eye, and his smile was crooked and almost shy. “My bedroom, too.”

There was something about bursting into the sunlight after getting a face full of Kryptonite in the darkness. A rush of energy, like light had replaced the blood in his body. Setting him alight. Making him feel alive.

Bruce’s words felt even better than that.

“Yeah,” Clark said. He moved his hands to Bruce’s thighs, holding them steady as he stood. Bruce didn’t demand that he put him down. Didn’t do anything but bury his face into Clark’s neck, shoulders shaking with soft huffs of laughter that warmed Clark’s blood even further. He settled Bruce more firmly on his hips and put one arm around his back, holding him close. Feeling his heart race alongside his own.

“Let’s go to Gotham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruno Mannheim. his father Moxie, Intergang, and Roman Sionis are all taken from pre-new 52 DCU, though I adapted them massively to fit into movieverse. (I used to read a lot of comics before new 52 ruined everything for me. (Two reasons: _Batman Inc._ and _Stormwatch_. I’ll stop there because I can rant forever.))
> 
> Waller's plot is made more accurate by a comment on this chapter from ADHDBarryAllen, who corrected me regarding my previous use of Adderall and Ritalin. Desoxyn was suggested by [28ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts), who is utterly amazing when it comes to knowledge of pharmaceutical drugs.


	3. to belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Now that the politics are mostly over, do y'all remember what I said about everyone being intersexed in this world? Yeah? Okay good. Details are that omegas don't have balls but have a vagina, a cock, and a prostate, while Alphas have a cock, a knot and a non-functional vagina. This is my favourite A/B/O worldbuilding because it gives me so much to play with in terms of porn. So, yeah, take that as a warning, I guess?

It wasn’t that Clark hadn’t been to Gotham before – he had met Bruce Wayne, and then Batman, here, in this city; he, well, he had _died_ in this city. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been to the Cave before, either: he had, after the whole affair with Steppenwolf. The entire League had been in the Cave. 

But it was different, being here with Bruce. At Bruce’s invitation. Given out of desire instead of necessity.

He had set Bruce down on the balcony of his bedroom, and deliberately not watched as Bruce keyed in the passcode that allowed access to the basement. Bruce had thrown him an amused look at that, which Clark returned with a shrug. 

Look, he wasn’t going to make assumptions about what he was allowed.

They spent hours down in the Cave, Clark seated backwards in a chair, watching Bruce tinkering with his tools at his workstation. Okay, maybe it was less tinkering than actually doing something important, but Clark never took a college degree, much less one in engineering, and it was kind of difficult for him to tell what Bruce was doing when all he had for clues were guts and parts of machines he didn’t recognise. 

Plus, he was distracted.

Bruce wasn’t deliberately being a tease, but he didn’t have to be. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his shirt – though he did switch out his underwear and slacks – and Clark could _see_ the bruise on his neck appearing, darkening, as the minutes passed. And the _scent_ of him: the cinnamon hints growing stronger, sandalwood retreating; sweetness of vanilla nearly buried beneath the thickening salt. Not just of his slick, but his sweat as well. The gleam of the nape of his neck when he ducked his head under the lamp to better look at what he was doing. And his breaths, stuttering once every few minutes when his control slipped. The way his heart was beating so fast despite the steadiness of his hands.

And, overlaying all of that, the scents of metal and machine oil and leather that soaked the entire Cave. Reminding Clark that he was here, in the realm of the Gotham Bat. And, if he stretched his senses, he could hear the wind gently rattling the glass of the lake house above, and the whispers of the water; all part of the realm of Bruce Wayne. And, most of all, Gotham herself, the shadows so heavy and fraught with history that they had soaked even into the air of the Cave, caressing Clark’s skin; the site of Bruce’s passion and his greatest love.

All sides of Bruce, right here, surrounding him. Because Bruce had trusted him enough to lead him here. His home; his sanctuary. 

Maybe Clark should feel guilty. Maybe he should be out there, saving people, instead of sitting and drowning his senses in everything that was Bruce. The thought niggled at him, and he solved it by the second hour by borrowing one of Bruce’s laptop and starting to outline the article he said he would write. 

Or, well, he _tried_. It was mostly nonsensical gibberish, with one long string of keyboard smashing when Bruce had— when Bruce dropped his screwdriver, dropped his head down, and hissed in tandem to the twitches of his fingers, his knees. Clark had to squeeze his eyes shut and simply stop breathing for the next ten minutes just so he wouldn’t jump him.

Not yet. Not until Bruce told him he could.

The sun had set hours ago. A few minutes back, Bruce had directed him to a fridge at a corner of the Cave, where he had pulled out a few sandwiches. It was only then that Clark realised that he hadn’t seen hide or hair of Alfred, that there were no heartbeats except for theirs in the vicinity. He debated asking about it, but then he decided that he didn’t really want to know. 

“You know, I always wondered,” Bruce said, speaking around his mouthful of bread. He was leaning against the side of the workstation. Clark tried to think about why he wasn’t sitting; tried to concentrate on eating instead of the scent of him. “You don’t need to eat, right?”

“Nope,” Clark said. “I run on sunlight, basically.”

“Then, if you don’t eat regularly… do you still come?” When Clark’s head jerked up, Bruce gave him a sly smile. “Sunlight is energy, but it’s not exactly material. Your come has to be metabolised from _somewhere_.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it, and chewed vigorously on the rest of his sandwich. For a few seconds, he tried valiantly to not stare as Bruce licked his own fingers clean. Then he decided, fuck it, Bruce was talking about his _come_ and his tongue was darting between the webs of his fingers even though he was holding food between his finger _tips_ , so Clark was well within his rights to stare.

—Wait. Was that… was that a _come on_? (He cringed internally. Even unintentional, that pun was terrible.) Was… was this Bruce trying to signal to him that he was ready, that Clark could…

He breathed in to say something. _Shit_ , that was a bad idea. He could smell nothing but Bruce, now: cinnamon and sandalwood and vanilla and _salt_ , so much of it, he was drowning in it. His head dropped back before he noticed, air shuddering back out of his lungs. 

Needed to say something. _Answer the question, Kent_. Take it at face value because he didn’t think he had enough higher brain functions to do anything else, at this point.

“I don’t know,” he tried to say, not sure if he was coherent or if he was just making a bunch of garbled sounds. “I’ve always tried to eat regularly, so I don’t… I’ve never…” He swallowed. Could feel Bruce’s eyes on his throat, right where his Adam’s apple was bobbing. “Bruce. I need you to tell me if you’re just teasing.”

Calluses scraping over his chin. Clark shook again, feeling plastic crack and metal crumble beneath his clenched fist. The folding chair fell away, useless now, as he forced his eyes back open to look at Bruce.

“What,” Bruce drawled, “do you think?” His hand closed around Clark’s wrist, bringing his hand up. Laid Clark’s fingers over his own throat, right at the blossoming bruise. “C’mon. You can smell me, hear me. You _know_.”

“Maybe,” Clark said. It was a hell of a struggle to keep hold of his control right now, but he needed to. This was important. “But what I’m sensing is your body, Bruce. And that’s not really a good sign of whether you want this.”

Bruce tilted his head. “I’m in heat,” he said slowly. “Because of you.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. He brushed his knuckles over Bruce’s cheek, rubbing the smooth skin over the stubble that had grown in over the past few hours. “But you could’ve changed your mind. Even now, you can still change your mind. So, I need you to say it.” He leaned forward, touching his forehead to Bruce’s. 

He knew. He understood. Bruce invited him here, had probably declared it. But Clark needed to be sure, needed to have the words. Maybe that was selfishness. Maybe that was asking too much of Bruce that he couldn’t give. But he couldn’t help it. 

“You,” Bruce started. He huffed out a breath too heavy to be a laugh, too light for a sigh. His hand cupped the back of Clark’s neck, right where it felt like it was burning, and turned his head so their cheeks brushed against each other’s. “You’re fucking unreal, Kent.” 

“Please,” Clark whispered. 

Bruce’s hand over his own, still on his neck. His thumb stroking over Clark’s, urging him to press against the pulse point. His eyes were very dark. “Yes,” he said, and pulled Clark’s hand down. Hooked Clark’s fingers over his belt. “Yes. Come on.” The ghost of a smile on his lips. “Do you need me to go on my knees to prove it?

Clark bit down hard on the inside of his own cheek. He turned his head, dragged his lips over the line of Bruce’s jaw. Dipped down and scraped his teeth over the bruise he had left. He felt more than heard Bruce’s moan; felt the hardness of him against his hip as Bruce jerked forward, pressing tight against him. Clark closed his eyes, and crooked his fingers.

Leather snapped. This was getting into a bad habit, Clark thought fuzzily. Him ruining Bruce’s clothes. All of those expensive things that probably cost more per piece than his entire month’s salary. He would apologise, but it was getting _really_ _hard_ to care.

Especially when he slipped his hand in, flicking his fingers to rip the silky underwear apart, too. He deliberately skirted around Bruce’s cock, only running a nail against the base to feel his hips stutter forward. Slick wet on Bruce’s thighs. Clark closed his eyes, breathing hard against Bruce’s temples, sinking his vision into the grey strands before he pressed a finger inside him.

Bruce’s hands flew to his shoulders, clenching, his head dropping back. No sound, just the parting of his lips, the heavy lidding of his eyes. Clark bit his lip and pushed in deeper. Bruce was so wet that there was practically no resistance. Bruce’s nails on his shoulder. Clark pulled back, dragging a shiver out of Bruce, before he slammed in, dragging his thumb’s nail up the vein on Bruce’s cock at the same time.

” _Clark_!” A sharp, wrenching cry, Bruce’s grip on Clark’s shoulders so tight that he would’ve bruised any other man. “Clark, fuck, just—”

“Hold on tight,” Clark said. He nudged at Bruce’s arms with his chin until they wrapped around his neck. Then he wrapped his free arm around Bruce’s waist and floated off the ground. Just an inch, barely hovering enough to leave Bruce’s feet dangling. Then, with a short burst of superhuman speed, Clark pulled his fingers out, and slammed two inside. And _twisted_.

Bruce lurched forward, gasping soundlessly, shaking as Clark fucked him with his fingers, keeping the thrusts shallow but scraping the insides of his twitching hole with his nails. Just to feel Bruce bury his face into his neck, hear him panting wetly against his skin. His own cock was hard enough that it practically hurt, and the staccato jerks of Bruce’s hips were rubbing the cotton of his underwear over his oversensitive head, but he could ignore that right now because this— _this—_  
  
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Clark whispered. He drew his fingers out until only the tips remained inside, rubbing his thumb over the wet, swollen rim. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll slow down.”

Bruce’s shoulders shook for a moment. When he lifted his head, his pupils were blown so large that they had swallowed the hazel irises entirely. “Kent,” Bruce said, his lips quirked lopsidedly. “It’s not nearly enough.” He pulled Clark closer with the arm around his neck. “ _Fuck me_ already. I can take it.” One brow lifted. “You think you’re the first one to take me?”

That was way more transparent than Bruce usually was. But Clark couldn’t help the snarl that wrestled out of his throat anyway; couldn’t really control the surge of possessiveness, of _wanting_. He pulled his fingers out – a bit too fast, too sharp, Bruce gasping as his thighs trembled as he wrapped them around Clark’s hips – before he shoved three inside. Twisted, curled, seeking, _seeking_ —

“Fuck! Ah!” Bruce’s entire body trembled like Clark had jabbed electricity straight into his nerves. Clark smirked, and thrust steadily, ran his nail over that spot where the g-spot met the prostate.

“I can practically put my whole fist into your right now,” Clark said, barely cognizant of the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re so _wet_ , Bruce. So loose.” The arm around Bruce’s back shifted, moving down to grip his ass, clenching tight enough to bruise on the muscle there. “You want me to fuck you here, right in your Cave, surrounded by everything that you have made yourself into, everything that makes you beautiful and deadly and _terrifying_?”

Before Bruce could answer, Clark wedged one more finger inside him even as he dropped his entire body backwards, hovering horizontally with Bruce straddling him. “I’ll take you here, claim you here. Fill the Cave with the scent of sex. Fuck you against every single surface until you can’t look at any spot here without thinking about me, without remembering just how it feels when I’m inside you.” He moved his fingers faster, practically vibrating them right against that place inside, twisting and twisting.

“Clark, Clark, fuck, _Clark_ ,” Bruce was babbling, every other word out of his mouth just Clark’s name. Eyes closed, hands clenched tight around Clark’s shirt but arms too weak to hold himself up, his hips juddering with every thrust of Clark’s fingers inside his hole. At one particularly vicious thrust, he threw his head back and _moaned_ , a long, drawn-out sound loud enough to echo in the Cave. __

__Pulling his fingers out, Clark tripped at the whine that Bruce gave him. Dark eyes fluttered open, glazed over, and Clark smiled. He lifted his hand, showing Bruce the fingers dripping with his slick. Lightning flashed across those eyes for a moment before Bruce leaned in, opening his mouth.

Like that, with that flush high on his cheeks and spit and slick wetting his stubble… Like that, with his head tipped back and tongue darting past his lips to swirl over Clark’s invulnerable skin, with his eyes narrowed on Clark and every movement deliberate despite the erratic, involuntary jerking of his hips… he was the most beautiful creature Clark had ever seen. A savage grace, a vicious beauty, better than any of those airbrushed pretty things Clark had seen on covers of magazines.

“ _Bruce,”_ Clark breathed out.

Fingers tugged at his shirt. “Should’ve gotten you to change,” Bruce said, drawing back from Clark’s fingers. “Made you wear your uniform.” 

He shouldn’t be so coherent, in the middle of heat and so close to orgasm, but of course he was. 

Hazel eyes caught Clark’s for a long moment before Bruce smirked, ducking his head down further to slide his tongue over Clark’s wrist, to change the drops of slick that had trailed down the skin. “I would’ve dirtied it with my come, my slick,” Bruce continued. He dragged his hips over Clark’s hips, up over his shirt, soaking the cloth, the cheap cotton and wool. “One of the last vestiges of Krypton, streaked over with the filth of humanity.”

Clark’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. He felt himself floating even higher, and barely managed to stop Bruce’s head from smashing against the ceiling of the Cave when he slammed a fist against it. Pieces of concrete and rock fell off, raining down on them. Bruce’s breath didn’t hitch, and his gaze remained so, so steady on Clark.

Reaching out, Clark tugged his head down. Met him halfway into a kiss, licking into Bruce’s filthy mouth, sliding his tongue over teeth and palate, claiming every inch, tasting Bruce’s slick as Bruce arched against him. 

“Next time,” Clark panted out. “Next time you let me fuck you, I’ll wear the uniform.” Nails down Bruce’s spine as he rocked upwards, pressing his hard cock and growing knot against the inside of Bruce’s thigh just to watch him bite his own lip. “I’ll make you come all over it. Soak it with the scent of you until I can’t wear it without thinking of you. Of the things you do to me.”

Bruce threw his head back and laughed. “I find that difficult to believe,” he drawled, “when you haven’t fucked me yet.” His nails trailed down Clark’s chest. “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation, hayseed?” 

“Impatient,” Clark shot back. He rocked his hips again, grinning as Bruce’s lashes fluttered and his head tip back. Tugging him down even more, he pressed his lips over the bruise, biting down on the skin just to feel Bruce’s pulse jump where it was trapped between his teeth. “Haven’t you heard about taking it slow?”

Hands on his chest. Bruce pushed himself up, biceps flexing, and the look he gave Clark was so incredulous that Clark couldn’t help but laugh. 

“You’re not supposed to be able to look at me like that when you’re in heat,” he murmured. He stroked his hand down Bruce’s side and curved around to the inside of his thigh. Wrapped his hand around Bruce’s cock and drew circles with his thumb on the head. “When you’re this hard and this wet for me.”

Bruce let out a breath, low and harsh, through parted lips. A few strands of hair fell into his eyes. “Doesn’t turn off,” he said, tapping the side of his head. His smile was almost wry, almost apologetic. “Plus, I had a few hours of practice.”

Of course that was what he had been doing. Of course he had been still thinking, still planning, still _working_ while Clark was driven to distraction just by the scent and sound and sight of him. Accomplishing nothing but strings of gibberish while Bruce probably checked off a thousand things on his endless to-do list.

Everything here that Bruce had, that Bruce was. Everything that made him capable and terrifying and _himself_. Bruce wouldn’t change a thing about that, Clark knew – it was part of him, part of what made him who he was and allowed him to do what he needed to. But he could see, too, the toll it took on him: the deep-etched lines at the sides of his eyes, his mouth. His steadying breath, his slowing heart. Control instinctively grabbed at, despite himself.

Slowly, Clark brushed away the strands from Bruce’s eyes. Then he closed his hands around those narrow hips. Just placed them there. “Want me to try my best to make you shut down?” he whispered. His fingers ran up and down Bruce’s cock. Gentle, light. “I want to make you scream and forget about everything except my name, so this is really just part of the deal.”

Bruce hummed under his breath, rocking up to Clark’s hand but without making him go faster. Clark tried to not focus too much on how his movements were making his slick soak through Clark’s pants, how every rock rubbed Bruce's thighs against Clark's own hips, so close to right where he needed to touch. “You think you’re up to the challenge?” 

“Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” Clark pointed out. “More importantly, though…” He stroked a little harder, a little faster. “Here, or up to the bedroom that you barely showed me?”

“Can you stay like this?”

“I can stay here like this for _weeks_ ,” Clark shrugged. He had enough of a charge when they were flying around outside in the sunlight, and hovering didn’t take a lot of energy. He nudged his little finger against the rim of Bruce’s hole just to relax the growing furrow between his brows again. “It’s up to you. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”

Bruce went still. Then he leaned over Clark, elbow on his shoulder. A hand into Clark’s hair, gentle, nails sliding light over his scalp. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Bruce said. There was a different darkness creeping into his eyes, edging around the hazel irises that were now showing just slightly. “Not because of anything you can do, but this.” A tug on his hair. “ _This_.” His other hand right above Clark’s heart.

The most human parts of him. Invulnerable body; susceptible mind, vulnerable heart. And that darkness, the guilt creeping into Bruce's eyes. 

Clark smiled helplessly, and tugged Bruce forward so he could kiss him. Not hungry, not devouring, just soft and lingering, sliding his tongue over Bruce’s lips. His hand slipped beneath Bruce’s turtleneck, fingertips grazing over the trailing scars. Stopped at the one at the small of his back, tiny and would be invisible if not for how deep it was. Past the bone. A snapped spine.

“You’re pretty amazing too, you know,” Clark murmured. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“Mm, upstairs,” Bruce replied against his mouth. “There are condoms on the nightstand,” he continued, “and I kind of want to see how you’d end up ruining my sheets.” Clark could feel the edges of his grin against his teeth. “You’re proving yourself to be a hazard to cloth, Kent.”

Laughing, Clark pulled back. “Hold on,” he said, and waited until Bruce had wrapped his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. He steadied the hand on Bruce back before he flew them up the staircase, heading upwards. Waited for Bruce to press in the code – still with his eyes averted so he didn’t see, and not listening for the minute differences in the beeps – before he flew them to the bed.

He flipped them over once they reached, pinning Bruce beneath his body. Strong thighs parted immediately, and Bruce hissed as Clark tore apart the rest of his slacks and underwear, throwing them onto the floor. He arched, nails sinking into the cloth of Clark’s shirt, as Clark pressed a knee between his legs, rubbing cheap cotton over his wet hole, his twitching cock.

“Condoms are in the drawer,” Bruce told him, breathless now. “Come on.”

Clark considered it. His cock _ached_ with the need to be inside Bruce, but… not yet. He flashed Bruce a grin before he moved down, hovering above the bed so he could move faster. Closed his hands around the corded muscles of Bruce’s thighs before pulling his legs apart and holding them there.

_Fuck_ , the scent here. He had almost gotten used to it, could almost push it to the back of his mind. But now there was a hint of musk that sharpened the salt and cinnamon. Clark couldn’t help himself: he leaned in and _licked_ , one long line from the base all the way up, up, sliding his tongue over the vein of Bruce’s cock until he could close his lips around the head and _suck_.

Bruce jerked, a strangled sound escaping. Knuckles white, pulling on Clark’s shirt but Clark was unyielding. Stayed where he was and did it again, and again, before he realised it wasn’t enough and ducked his head down and dove in deeper, darting his tongue inside Bruce to fill his mouth with salt, to chase the hint of sweet-sour, licking inside him over and over, covering his tastebuds with Bruce’s slick, trying to find out every single dimension of the taste of him.

Above him, Bruce was babbling again. Breathing wrecked, a litany of _Clark, Clark, Clark,_ escaping him, each repetition explosive like the name had been punched out of his lungs. His hand was tight enough in Clark’s hair to rip the strands out if Clark was human, and his thighs were trembling in Clark’s grip. When Clark pushed four fingers inside him again, twisting and curling to rub against the spot, Bruce’s back arched off the bed and he—

The sound was muffled. Clark’s eyes narrowed, lifting his head up. Bruce had his wrist inside his mouth, biting down on it to keep the noise in. Still too coherent, Clark decided, and knew he had to try harder.

He pushed his tongue in beside his fingers, stretching Bruce out even as he thrust in. It was a little difficult, honestly, and involved a bit of manoeuvring so he didn’t end up smashing his own nose. But it was worth it to feel the bed creak as Bruce trembled and shook, his heels digging into the sheets as he started to rock down to Clark’s fingers, Clark’s mouth.

“Stop fucking—” a ragged breath, breaking into a choked-off whine, as Clark slammed his fingers against the spot. “Stop teasing and fuck me already!”

Clark lifted his head, cocking his head up. Bruce was glaring at him, and the expression was almost familiar except of the slight glazed look in those eyes.  
_  
Heat haze_ , Clark remembered. He had read about it. The state omegas got to during heat, in which their minds were filled with nothing but the need to be fucked, to be knotted, and they became capable of nothing else. When they couldn’t defend themselves. When nothing was important except the need to be filled. 

The reason why they needed to be protected. The reason why heats could only be triggered by safety. 

It had been nearly half a day since Clark had smelled the heat on Bruce. Hours of watching as it sank into his nerves and sat them alight. A ridiculously long time spent teasing him, edging him closer to orgasm. And now, only _now_ , could Clark see a hint of that haze coming to Bruce’s eyes.

And he was still demanding. Clark buried his face into Bruce’s thighs. Breathed out so he wouldn’t break out laughing. He had his work cut out for him.

“ _Kent_.” Bruce’s hand in his hair, practically trying to tear the strands free with his grip. Clark grinned, let Bruce feel his teeth on the inside of his thigh as he bit down. At the same time, he cockscrewed his fingers and pushed them all the way in, watching as the rim of Bruce’s hole swallow even the knuckles.

And Bruce shuddered again. Both hands on the sheets, now, clenching tight as he threw his head back, making a noise that was nearly a scream. Clark cocked his head to the side. Then he bit harder, feeling the capillaries break, and he crooked his fingers and vibrated them against that spot inside.

“ _Clark_!” The name tore out of Bruce’s lips, loud and ringing. “Clark, Clark, fuck me, just fuck me already, fuck me, fuck me, I need—” Another twist. A lick at the head of his cock. “Clark, Clark— _please_! Ah! God!”

Digging his own fingers into the sheets, Clark tried to breathe.

It wasn’t the begging. It was the swear. _God_. Bruce had of course noticed that Clark had stopped using it. Had become coarser than his Midwest upbringing allowed with _fuck_ and _shit_ because _God_ and _damn_ and _Jesus_ hit too close, threatened to rip something out of him. Bruce had followed, had not used it. Hadn’t used it even as Clark was setting his nerves on fire, because he had been thinking.

Clark pushed himself up. Hovered above Bruce before he cupped his face, smearing slick all over the stubble, and kissed him. “Love you,” he gasped out. “Love you, love you, and yeah, I’m going to fuck you.” His other hand scrambled for the nightstand, nearly pulling the drawer out of its hinges before diving in, listening for the sound of crinkling foil. “Gonna fuck you and claim you and make you mine. Mine entirely. Mine.”

He put the condom on himself without looking, gaze fixed on Bruce’s face. His swollen, gleaming lips. The high flush on his cheeks. His eyes. His glazed-over eyes.

“Clark,” Bruce murmured. Hand around Clark’s neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” Clark said, the words rushing out of him. “I’ve got you, shhh. I’ve got you.” He ripped his own clothes getting them off of him, flung the ragged pieces behind himself without looking. “Got you, got you, gonna have you.” Two hands on Bruce’s hips, lifting him, and Bruce whined and arched because Clark _knew_ that no one had ever treated him like this. Moved him like he weighed nothing.

Lining himself up, Clark pushed in. Groaned at the feel of Bruce’s heat engulfing him, devouring him. Took Bruce’s parted lips, claimed his mouth and breathed in his stuttering gasp at the first thrust. Bent his head back and mouthed at his throat as he pulled back and slammed in hard enough to slide Bruce’s entire body up the bed.

“ _Clark_!”

Bruce’s _eyes_. He was looking at Clark in a way that should send creeps down his spine. Looked at him like he was his god. _Heat haze_ , Clark’s remaining rationality said, but he batted it away because yeah, he knew. He knew and it was fine because he remembered every step that had taken them here. Knew everything that had led to him earning this look from Bruce, deserving it.

Knew that he was looking back at Bruce exactly the same way.

“Mine.” A claim ghosted over Bruce’s lips. Their foreheads together, Clark’s hand on Bruce’s hip as he fucked into him, aiming for the spot that made Bruce’s rough voice edge up an octave. “Mine, mine, mine.” His hand on Bruce’s cock, stroking him hard, vibrating because yeah, he could do this, no one else could, and he was going to ruin Bruce for anyone else, he wasn’t going to let Bruce even think of letting anyone else fuck him because Bruce was _his, his, his._

Bruce came for him again with a sudden snap of his head backwards, his eyes wide and unseeing. His insides clenched down hard on Clark, but Clark gritted his teeth and kept going, faster and faster, fucking Bruce through his orgasm until Bruce was writhing and thrashing and gasping for air beneath him. Then he kissed him and dragged that air down into his own lungs, watched as Bruce’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he came again, a second time, his cock still soft but the orgasm ripping through him purely from being fucked.

And he kept going. All of his hard-earned control over even the smallest bit of his body, and he was using it to stop himself coming. To make Bruce come, again and again, until he was screaming, alternating between Clark’s name and wordless incoherency, fingers clawing at the sheets and Clark’s shoulders. Thighs trembling, loosening their grip, heels scrabbling for purchase on the sheets. Mouth slack and open for Clark’s taking, his eyes entirely glazed over in the throes of his heat.

And that flush. From forehead down past the collarbones, deeper than just arousal. _Embarrassment_ , Clark noted, feeling giddy. Some part of Bruce was embarrassed by how he was reacting, how loud he was being, because he had never been like this. Never given himself over to anyone else so wholly and completely, and, _God_ , Clark had thought that he couldn't get harder, that his blood couldn't run hotter. But he had been wrong. 

When he couldn’t take it anymore, when Bruce’s voice had already given up and every thrust only made him whimper and toss his head from side to side, Clark closed his eyes. He pulled Bruce’s head back and bared his throat. Set his teeth on the side of the neck opposite the bruise and bit down _hard_ even as he slammed in, shoved his knot past Bruce’s clenching, twitching rim. Bruce trembled for him, a thin and thready cry escaping his raw throat, before he slumped back down on the bed.

They just laid there for long moments, Clark’s eyes closed as he focused on Bruce’s heartbeat and breathing. 

He could literally tell the moment in which Bruce’s brain kicked back online. Could feel the shallow panting turn into deeper breaths as Bruce remembered how to get oxygen back into his blood most effectively.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bruce’s voice _cracked_. Clark could hear him lick his lips, could hear him try to shift and then wince. He hid his grin. “Kent.”

“Nah,” Clark lifted himself. He looked down at Bruce, at his mussed hair and sweat-slicked skin and exhausted eyes. “Just Clark Kent.” He paused, and the grin widened. “Jesus Fucking Christ Kent is a _terrible_ name, by the way.”

Bruce tried to glare at him. It wasn’t very effective, especially when he arched and bit his lip when Clark nudged his hips forward, grinding his cock around the rim of Bruce’s hole. Clark ran a hand down his chest, tracing over some of the scars. There, three near-parallel slashes, like claws. He lowered his head, licked each line, one by one. Felt Bruce’s muscles twitch, heard him groan.

“Aren’t you _done_?”

“Give me some sun, and I can go on forever,” Clark told him. It was the truth. Or, well, as far as he knew about it. His stamina had always far outstripped anyone he had ever slept with. “Or until your stash of condoms runs out.” He paused, thinking. Bite down above a rib that had the most fractures beneath the skin. “Or, well, until my _come_ runs out.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bruce started shaking. When Clark lifted his head, he saw that Bruce had an arm tossed over his eyes, and his mouth was twitching. Clark blinked, and he ran his fingers down over Bruce’s sides, felt him twitch even more, and there— _there_ , the sound of his laughter, hoarse from disuse, rough from a throat badly abused.

“Unbelievable,” Bruce choked out between gasping chuckles. “Fucking _unbelievable_.”

Lifting himself up – by his hands, this time – Clark leaned down. Bruce dropped his arm, and they looked at each other. Slowly, Bruce’s lips curved up. Not lopsided, now, and not empty. A smile bright enough to make his eyes shine.

Clark had to kiss that smile. Bruce opened his mouth for him, still laughing, and Clark took it all, filled his body up with it. He had to chuckle himself when he felt Bruce’s nails scoring down his back, following the lines of his spine. Vulnerable nails. Impenetrable skin. Bruce was too smart to think it would work, but he was still doing it. 

Then Bruce’s teeth were on his neck, and his other hand was moving down, down. Curling over the base of Clark’s knot, right where they were joined. Clark’s eyes fell shut for a moment, and snapped back open when Bruce’s fingers moved _back_ , pressing on that tiny furl of skin behind his balls. The hole that was never developed enough to open. Bruce’s nails, nudges light but purposeful. His smirk wide and full of teeth against Clark’s throat.

Air rushed out of Clark’s lungs. He turned his head, pressing his face into Bruce’s hair. “Christ,” he murmured. “ _Christ_.”

Yeah. Yeah, this was what this man could do to him.

A man too complicated to fit any script, any narrative. Too much of him for improvisation, so much that no stage would ever be big enough to fit. So many facets, all contradictory, that none of the stories Clark knew could give him a clue about what would happen after this; nothing to help him know in advance what would happen next. In fact, he had no clue what would happen after they both got out of this bed. 

But that was fine. It was fine.

He didn’t need a script, didn’t need a stage, to have a place where he could feel at ease. A space where he could just _be_. 

“Yeah,” Clark nodded. He met Bruce’s eyes. Crooked a grin. “Yours. Yours, for as long as you’ll have me.” 

Bruce stroked a hand over his cheek. His other hand splayed over Clark’s chest, fingers curving in. “I’m obsessive,” he said, dry despite the cracking voice. “Possessive. Not good at letting go of things.”

Clark grinned wider. He leaned down and kissed him again.

“Exactly.”

***

Taking a deep breath, Clark stepped up to the podium. He turned around and faced the group of reporters, scanning their faces. There, in the corner, was Lois. She gave him a smile, and a small thumbs-up half-hidden beneath her tablet. 

Clark spread his hands on the podium’s edge, leaning his weight very slightly on it. He breathed in just once, slow and deep. Following Bruce’s even breaths, behind him and off to the side, tucked away from most people’s sight in the bare shadows of the room, but blaring bright to Clark’s senses.

“The Justice League understands the concerns of the American government,” Clark said. His voice rang out loud and clear in the room. “We are a group of very powerful people, the kind of which the world had never seen, and though we hope that you will trust our intentions to do good, we know, too, that such trust need to be earned.”

This press conference would go on the Internet. Every word he said would be analysed, scrutinised, torn apart to fit a thousand agendas. Every single word would hold more weight because _he_ was the one who said it. He knew all of those things even when he agreed to this.

“We need to be accountable. We _want_ to be accountable. There should not be a situation in which we, in which any of us, should be allowed to choose our wishes over the good of the public.”

He took another breath. Heard the quiet whirr of electricity as the expansion and contraction of his chest was captured by cameras, by phones. 

“Given that, we are proposing that the United Nations Security Council to set up a committee to watch over our actions. We will report to them, and they will ensure that we do not go off the rails, so to speak.” 

Another breath that didn’t throw off the weight of the eyes on him. 

“We have chosen Director Amanda Waller of ARGUS to head this committee because of her previous actions. We believe that she understands our goals and, more importantly, that she understands the _need_ for the public to have proof that we are working for their good.” 

Pushing back against the podium, he stood up straight. Resisted the urge to put his hands behind his back and shift his weight from foot to foot. He was being Superman right now, and Superman didn’t fidget like a nervous kid.

“The Justice League has called for this conference in hopes that the United Nations will listen to and accept our proposal. We are requesting this publicly as a show of sincerity of our desire to be accountable. To hide nothing from the people that we have sworn to protect.”

At this point, the rest of his teammates stepped up. All of them except, of course, Batman. But his presence right there, with them, was already a message.

“We will now take your questions.”

In the split second before hands shot up into the air and voices burst out calling his name, Clark heard a brief murmur from behind him. Subvocal. 

“Not bad. Too much ‘we,’ though. What do you think you are, royalty?”

At the corner of his eyes, Diana’s lips twitched. Arthur closed his eyes, his chin dipping down as his throat worked to suppress the sigh. Victor and Barry both kept their eyes straight ahead, even though the former’s fingers twitched. Clark did his best to keep himself from laughing.

Not even a second after the speech, even before it got out to the public, and he already had someone criticising it. It gave a whole new meaning about not being able to please everybody, honestly.

“You, Miss?”

“Julie Madison, _Gotham Gazette_ ,” the red-haired woman on the opposite side of the room from Lois said, lowering her hand. “There are just a few concerns I’d like you to address…”

Clark listened, and allowed himself to sink into considering and answering the questions. He kept part of his attention on Bruce’s breath and heartbeat, and slowly his own started to match them.

There was a high chance that it wouldn’t work. There was a chance that even if the committee was created, it wouldn’t do anything. There was a possibility that the committee would be used against them, or that it would end up asking for so much that the Justice League would literally not be able to do anything.

But that was fine. The future wasn’t set and would never be. Besides, if anything went south, then they would deal with it. They would keep trying.

That was what humans, what _people_ , did, wasn’t it?

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julie Madison is New 52 Batman comics. I’m actually not sure if she’s from _Gotham Gazette_ – I got the name from the DC Wikia because me and new 52 have a terrible relationship, and the continues reboots have tired me out even more. 
> 
> This is mostly motivated by a) the relationship between Clark and Bruce in the movies, b) the DCEU being supposedly more reality-based than the comics, but it seems more grimdark than the whole idea that “people are complicated and contradictory and a little bit broken because of all the ways the world is subtly shit, and they still deal with crap and keep trying for their own definitions of better anyway” form of reality that I know.
> 
> It’s also very definitely about the idea of _equality_ in relationships, because Clark and Bruce are equals and are supposed to be equals, and I’m just very fascinated by what that means if I throw in both the idea of A/B/O and Clark being constantly compared to a god into the mix. And _yes,_ the whole thing about discrimination about omegas? It’s a very bald analogy to misogyny. Like I said, someone labelled Affleck!Batman – six foot four, broad-shouldered, built like a brick wall Affleck!Batman – as an omega, and my brain decided that’s just incredibly _fascinating_ to explore about misogyny from that front. Especially since it’s something I haven’t done before.
> 
> (Besides, A/B/O is basically about gender politics and dynamics anyway. I might as well go all-out with that.) 
> 
> There is one thing I barely touched here that’s very much a big part in the movies: Bruce’s guilt over the events of _Dawn of Justice._ I kind of skimmed it, to be honest, because my previous SuperBat has already touched on it, and there are a lot of fics that dealt so much better with it than I ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> Please validate me via comments. <3 I am on tumblr, @[evocating](evocating.tumblr.com/), though I haven’t touched the thing in a while


End file.
